Feel the fear and do it anyway
by Lock Lokidottir
Summary: 'Fear'- A prompt from my good friend Trufflehead. We're doing a prompt thingie, so you should check out her fics too- she's really great! Sherlock and John have both felt terror, have both felt fear at different points in their lives- but these stories are special ones which have made Sherlock and John value each other all the more... well, Sherlock at least! Rate and review!


**_John's fear_**

Fear.

It's a word, so full of emotion, isn't it?

Well, John thinks so- It makes the hairs on his arms stand to attention, makes him squirm.

He can't count how many times he has felt the familiar sensation of an ice cube slipping down into his stomach.

The earliest time, when Sherlock asked him, was probably when he slipped out of a tree when he was nine.

The Youngest Watson had lost his footing twenty metres off of the ground, which really isn't the best place to fall. The adrenalin spiked through his system as his blonde hair was slammed upwards, before a jolt that made his teeth rattle.

John looked up, his wide blue eyes full of curiosity. Luckily, his braces had caught on another branch, and he swung there, feeling more humiliated by the minute.

'Harry!' John had whined as a crow hopped on a branch nearest to his head. John had always had a odd fear of crows- but he can't really offer an explanation why. It's just the way they look at you, he reasoned, and as the crow cocked its head to the side he felt fear rise up like a monster in his gut.

'Harry!' he shouted again. The redhead below him, not three years older, was laughing herself silly at the young boys misfortune.

Then guess what?

Harriet Watson simply left her young brother there, walked away without a second glance at the hollering boy. John whimpered, his lip trembling, and started to cry.

Hours later, once darkness hugged the landscape like an old friend, Harry came back to find her brother still hanging by his braces of the trousers. She suddenly realised John _wasn't _faking, that he really was stuck- and like most sisters would, she helped him down. Harry soothed her younger brother, rubbing his back in circular, smooth motions and tried to be as nice as she could to him for the rest of the evening.

It wasn't that easy for Harry to earn back John's trust, and both parties (despite their age) knew that.

It was the first time John Watson had truly felt fear… and it changed him forever.

* * *

The most memorable time was probably when he was shot, courtesy of an afghan sniper.

John remembers how it had happened- he, Mooney, Jackson, Dwight, Ricky, Gerry, Micky were all laying on their stomachs, cheeks pressed down onto the gritty floor. They were underneath a bungalow, breathing heavily- after all, they had just ran and dived for cover, it takes a lot out of you.

He remembered asking, 'Where the hell is Aaronson?'- before a sound, like a whip, slicing cleanly through air sounded. All the brave soldiers winced as an animalistic howling issued not three seconds after.

He could just see- his cheek was still crushed to the floor, due to the narrow space- Aaronson. The scene made his heart freeze in his chest, and Captain Watson didn't welcome the clenching of his abdomen.

Aaronson's usually handsome face was twisted in pain, his sandy hair falling over his forehead, the blood quickly soaking through his camouflage shirt. Spread eagled on the floor, there was nothing he could do through pain to quench the flow of blood- John tried to block it out, but when the screams were no longer screams, but sobs and begs of mercy… John couldn't stand it.

It didn't take John a second to respond. His men only caught sight of a foot wriggling out of the enclosed space, before he was sprinting across the sand and rubble.

'What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?'

'_Doctor!'_

'Jesus Christ!'

'_John!'_

'_Captain!'_

'_Sir!'_

At that very moment, John couldn't have cared less. As he sprinted, his medical bag flying, and dropped to his knees he knew it was too late- the once strong flame of life in Jason Aaronson's eyes was now flickering, fading, threatening to extinguish completely.

John rooted around in his bag, his heart pounding-

_**Bang!**_

-and froze. The good doctor wondered if the bullet had hit him, but no pain descended upon him. He carried on, leaning over and shielding Aaronson as best as he could-

_**Bang!**_

Nothing again, so John's nimble and calloused hands got to work, placing pressure on the wound-

_**Bang!**_

The next thing John realised, not a second later, was that his shoulder was burning. The force of the bullet had knocked him backwards, his medical kit contence shattering and breaking as he accidently fell on top of it.

The good doctor could hear an animal shriek, but he didn't care about that. John was on fire. Someone was burning him.

Agony consumed his shoulder like the furious fires of hell. Blinking back tears, and turning his head to the side to see, John had it in him to be somewhat surprised. He wasn't on fire.

With a jolt, he realised it wasn't an animal screaming- the sound was coming out of himself, the shriek rumbling in the captains chest, ripping through his throat and bubbling out of his taut lips.

The blood was running and making patterns in the sand, but first it soaked his shirt. Gritting his teeth, he sat himself up- and his heart broke as he saw Aaronson's eyes flicker shut, his frown lines smoothing out.

John felt true fear, sheer _terror_ rip and claw at his chest.

He had failed.

He hadn't saved Aaronson.

Worst of all, he could see black invade his vision, blotting out the real world and the urgent shout of his own men.

Call him a coward for doing so, but Doctor John Watson didn't fight it.

* * *

_**Sherlock's fear**_

Sherlock isn't one to feel fear. Well, that's not true- he does- but he_ likes_ it. You have to feel the fear, which is like a devil whispering in your ear, pulling you back… but do it anyway.

The first time he felt fear Sherlock can't remember. He doesn't really care for himself, not really- you just have to accept the fact that, with so many enemies, experiments and running around London you will one day not be so smooth, or slick.

Sherlock doesn't fear death, God no. He actually cannot wait for the day, and he will welcome Him with open arms- what happens after is what Sherlock is really curious about. Is there a heaven? Hell? Where will he go? Or do you just shut your eyes as the brain ceases to function, as the limbs go heavy and your senses are suddenly blocked out?

Fear strikes him dead when he is with John. Sherlock cannot loose John- it wouldn't be like missing a limb, that isn't the right analogy. It would be like… like losing all the blood from your body.

June 17th, Sherlock would always remember that day.

It had been a perfectly normal day, at first. Then Sherlock accidentally set the curtains on fire, and John chose _that moment _to walk in.

'Jesus Christ, Sherlock!'

Sherlock just wrinkled his nose and set his clear plastic goggles further up his nose.

'John, bugger off. I've got it all under control-'

'Sherlock, _the bloody curtains are on fire!_'

'Problem?'

John just gripped his flaxen hair and practically ran out of the flat. Who knew living with an insomniac madman would have such consequences?

* * *

John took a detour around London, going nowhere in particular. Wandering, until his full blow rage simmered down into mild anger. Flopping down on a bench, head in his hands, he sighed. Before he knew it, the first stars were winking at him from the velvety blackness above, so the good doctor decided to take a shortcut through the many alleyways of London to get to 221B Baker Street, before it got too cold.

Sherlock, meanwhile, frowned as the eyeballs exploded in the microwave with a pop. The clock on the mantelpiece, next to the skull, chimed. It was eleven o'clock- where was John? Worry niggled in his stomach and pulled at the fabric of his mind.

With some thought, Sherlock slipped on his Italian leather shoes and great coat, grabbed his keys and walked out of the door.

* * *

Walking down the street, his shoes clacking on the pavement, John Watson smiled. _Home._ He would be home soon… he couldn't even remember what he had been angry _about, _for goodness sakes, so was it really that important?

Suddenly, someone grabbed him from behind, throwing him into the metal dustbins. Johns head painfully collided with the brick wall behind him.

'Now, cooperate, yeah?'

'I-I'm sorry, what?' John stammered. He looked at the man who was pinning him against the wall by a small silver blade. His ebony skin, combined with little lighting made it incredibly hard to see his features. The man was dressed from head to toe in black, save for the incredibly flashy necklace and green scarf.

'Cooperate, and no-one gets hurt. Now, please!'

'Look, I'm really sorry, I think you have the wrong person-'

John was suddenly crippled by a blow to the diaphragm. The doctor instantly folded onto himself, groaning, before having some hair ripped out as the man pulled his head up to look at him. He threw John into the wall again, and pinned his arms above his head.

The man looked murderous, his eyes gleaming. John gulped, partly out of fear and partly because he was still gasping for air.

John panicked slightly as, the man started to press the blade _oh so lightly_ into his neck. John felt some blood bead there. His eyes were screwed shut against the pain. So this is how he would die? Alone, angry at his flatmate, who was not for-

'What do you think you're doing?'

The pressure was removed, and John almost sobbed in relief. The deep baritone hadn't raised his voice, but the menace was still evidence.

'Wat'cha think ya doin? These are_ my _streets, Holmes.'

Sherlock walked forward and punched the man, his nose splintering under his fingers. The man stepped back, swearing, in surprise. Sherlock coolly wiped his hands on his jacket in distain, before rushing to John's side.

'These _were _your streets, Malkie, before you decided to hurt my Doctor Watson.'

John didn't even have his eyes open, but could almost feel Sherlock shaking in anger. Some leaked through his voice, and 'Malkie' stepped back, the blade falling with a soft chink on the floor as he held his hands up.

'Hey, man, I didn' mean to, yeah? A misunderstandin', ya get me?'

'Go,' Sherlock snarled, still protectively standing in front of John. 'If it weren't for Doctor Watson, who has his moral compass is strongly set, I would've killed you by now; get out of my sight.'

Malkie didn't need telling twice- cupping his nose to try and step the blood, he sprinted up the alley as suddenly Sherlock's hand were upon John.

'John! John! Are you alright?'

John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock's grey eyes wild, checking John for any obvious injuries. His large and pale hands were upon John, checking his pulse, measuring his breathing and Sherlock was so so glad he abandoned his experiments. He felt a pang of fear- what if he didn't? Where would John be now?

'Oh, John, what did you _do?'_

The man in question frowned. 'Walked into the path of a murderous gangster, apparently.'

Sherlock frowned, which would've been an amusing if the circumstances weren't so dire.

'No, John, don't joke about it!' Sherlock thundered. John was a little alarmed as he saw tears in Sherlock's eyes. He shook the doctor slightly. 'Don't joke about it! You could've died, and I _can't_ lose you!' The tears started to fall down now, and the detective's breathing became ragged.

John gently lead him up the alley, turning the corner and walking the few short meters into 221B- unlocking the door, he lead Sherlock up the stairs.

John turned, padded into the bathroom and took off his shirt. A large purple bruise was blossoming below his ribs, a small bruise around his wrists and the cut around his neck becoming sore; it seems John had got off lightly.

Sherlock walked in, and his mouth dropped when he saw the damage done to his soldier.

'Sherlock, don't look like that- I've had much worse.'

Suddenly, all his senses were clogged with the distressed detective. John barely had time to breath before Sherlock hugged him breathtakingly tight. In surprise, John automatically hugged back.

He was suddenly away of hot breath tickling his ear as Sherlock started talking fast. John only caught snippets, but it was enough.

'_Oh-John- I'm-so-sorry-it's-all-my-fault-can-you-forgive-me? John-I-promise-that-I-will-never-do-another-experiment-that-will-endanger-the-curtains-again-and-I-am-so-sorry-and-what-if-I-had-arrived-a-few-minutes-late-I-would've-never-forgiven-myself-I'm-so-glad-you're-alright-because-you're-my-best-friend-and-my-heart-and-I-don't-know-what-I'd-do-without-you.'_

John just let Sherlock babble on. Although, he eventually he had to interrupt the mouth that was buried in his shoulder and going a mile a minute.

'Sherlock, I've had worse.'

John smiled- he was sure he heard a 'shut up' sound, before Sherlock started babbling again promising promises that John hadn't a hope in hell of getting, but the sentiment warmed his heart anyway.

He had never seen this side of Sherlock- the human, needy side. The side that cared about John, and his welfare. The side that made Sherlock abandon his experiments and venture out to the cold London night, and also the side that was making Sherlock talk about John in a way he never had before.

John toyed with Sherlock's curls, and made a mental note to get into trouble more often.

He could get used to this Sherlock.


End file.
